Nicole de Rainvelle moved away from him again. He had understood her only too well, this Chief Inspector from the Surete. Had it shown so much?
She went to lean back against the window-sill behind Henri. She’d fold her arms over her chest and stare at this cop.
There were droplets of blood on her dress but she’d not yet noticed these, had been too excited, too caught up in the beating of that girl upstairs.
Mirage … why was she wearing Gabrielle Arcuri’s perfume?
St-Cyr still didn’t miss much. Lafont massaged the middle finger of his left hand with the thumb and forefinger of the right. ‘The coins aren’t bad, Louis, but the forger’s new to the game.’
‘Continue.’
The lime squash, a hideously vile concoction of ersatz fruit essence and saccharin, still hadn’t been touched. ‘The girl who was murdered in the Hotel of the Silent Life was not the pigeon of the mackerel who operated the carousel.’
The prostitute of the pimp. ‘Did they know each other?’ asked the cop.
Lafont smiled inwardly. Teasing St-Cyr was like teasing a fish. ‘Perhaps, but my sources think the mackerel knew of the girl but she didn’t know of him.’
Then she was being watched, sized up for future working perhaps. ‘And the owner of the carousel?’
The detective had taken the bait. Was it to be so easy? ‘We’ve not been able to find him yet.’
Then they were still looking for him. ‘Any ideas?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘A room facing on to the quai Jemmapes, above the Cafe du Paradis.’
The Canal Saint-Martin, in the 10th arrondissement not far from the Hospital of Saint-Louis.
‘He hasn’t been seen since early this week. The concierge says he went to visit his dying mother.’ Lafont shrugged. ‘Mothers do eventually die.’
‘Where?’
Again there was that shrug. ‘The Kommandantur has turned up nothing. The ausweis must have been a forgery.’
‘Or he never left the city. Who was he? Surely you must have a name?’ insisted St-Cyr.
‘That’s for you to find out. The Prefecture will give you nothing, and neither will your famous “Records”. The carousel was here in the city before the Defeat but the thing was sold for a song, dumped during the invasion. The guy who bought it could be anyone.’
‘And not have a proper licence? Come on, you know me better than that!’
‘Find out. Try the previous owner. Maybe he can shed a little light on things.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Someone, obviously, but there is no record left. It was lifted. Destroyed.’
‘And the girl?’ They were giving him the run-around.
‘Pierre has the dope on that. Ask him.’
Nicole de Rainvelle’s eyes lit up with excited anticipation at this new development. She uncrossed her slender arms and, smiling, pointed to the back of the room, to a far corner and the insignificant desk behind which sat that face from the past.
The trembling couldn’t be stopped – ah, Mon Dieu, the lime squash!
A little of it ran down over his fingers. Hastily St-Cyr fumbled for a handkerchief. The carpet … he’d damage it! Another Aubusson.
The girl was laughing.
Bonny didn’t smile. The squat figure with its squat neck, wide head and face sat so still. The dark eyes were sad and empty and slanting slightly away from the nose to take him in. Not a word of greeting, just hatred seething behind that look.
At fifty-seven, Pierre Bonny was his senior by a little more than five years. The greying hair had receded well back of the broad, flat forehead. The heavy cheeks were tightened to single creases that ran straight up the middle of each cheek. An ox of a man. Round-shouldered, the dark blue-black serge suit new but the fit still too tight; the silk tie a wash of pearl-grey, pink and white. The neatly cornered handkerchief in the jacket pocket was white.
Bonny sucked on a tooth. Louis hadn’t changed. He was still the prick he’d always been. ‘So, my friend, what brings you to us, eh?’
There were three card-index drums to Bonny’s left, a bank of them behind him. He was famous for them. His own little file on everyone and everything he thought of importance.
St-Cyr set the glass down on the desk. The urge to tip it over was strong but he resisted doing so.
One single droplet of blood marred the stiff white collar of that too-tight shirt.
Bonny had thrust his face at that girl upstairs. He’d grabbed her by the throat or blouse. There was blood on the cuffs of his shirt, but like Nicole de Rainvelle, he’d yet to notice this.
So many things surfaced in that instant. The years of being subordinate to him, of having to say good morning and have him look over the reports; the years of secretly questioning things that hadn’t looked right even though a colleague had been behind them, then the accusations, the evidence that had been patiently and secretly gathered, finally the destruction of that colleague.
A file card, together with a head-and-shoulders photograph of the girl who’d called herself Christiane Baudelaire, was flattened beneath those pudgy hands.
‘What have you to say for yourself?’ asked St-Cyr with barely controlled fury.
‘You’re shaking in your fucking boots, Louis. Fill that pipe of yours. Sit down and shut up.’
‘Never.’
Cops could breathe that way. ‘Suit yourself. The cockerel still wants to crow, Henri. Shall we bring on the hen for him to shag?’ he called out.
‘Show him the photos,’ came the answer from the other end of the room.
Bonny’s look never varied. The widely spaced eyes beneath dark, greying brows took St-Cyr in again.
Christiane Baudelaire had visited one of the flea markets – the Saint-Ouen most probably. The photographer had caught her unawares, not once but many times over several weeks or perhaps even months.
Had she been trying to sell something? wondered St-Cyr. He had the idea they’d keep this from him, but that they’d have photographs of the items the girl had clutched in her coat pockets.
Small things. She’d been afraid.
A last photograph showed her naked on the floor of that room at the Hotel of the Silent Life. Quite obviously the rue Lauriston had managed to get there before Hermann and himself. Ah yes.
In the top right corner of the card-index file Bonny had written: ‘A Big One.’
‘Seen enough?’ he asked, not showing a ray of sunshine.
‘Yes. Yes, I’ve seen enough.’
‘You can take these with you. I’ve copies.’
That won’t be necessary.’
‘Suit yourself. You always did think yourself better than the rest of us.’
The crooks that had been in the Surete and still were! ‘Not better, my friend. Just more dedicated.’
Nicole de Rainvelle had joined them. Leaning over to expose even more cleavage, she plucked one of the photographs from among the litter.
‘Take this one. Henri says you should. Me, I will escort you to the elevator.’
‘I’d prefer the stairs. My partner, Hermann, has learned the hard way not to trust the elevators in establishments such as this.’
The stairs would be better. ‘So be it then, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. Allow me …’ she indicated the door, handing him the shabby hat he’d somehow forgotten.
‘Next time you must wear your rubbers. We don’t want you to catch a cold.’
Out in the hall she breathed in quickly, the excitement building. It was always like this, the smell of danger, the smell of blood. Of perfume. Of Mirage. Fingertips lingered lightly on his neck. His skin was hot. ‘Adieu, my poor inspector. Please do not forget to come to see us soon.’
‘Who was she?’ He tossed his eyes to indicate the floor above.
He’d break to pieces. For a moment she was tempted to tell him. ‘Just someone who wouldn’t co-operate.’
‘Why are you wearing that scent?’
‘You know you should not ask such a thing of a woman such as myself.’
He shut his eyes. He clenched his fists, crumpling his hat and mangling the photograph. It was exquisite to see such pain. It made her body crave rapture. Henri would be pleased.